


Anatomically Correct

by ll_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Molly Hooper is a bento making goddess, and a crack hand with a scalpel, apparently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 14:38:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12014865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: Sherlock is (badly) stuffed into a gym bag at Molly's flat, but all is not what it seems.





	Anatomically Correct

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I don't even know what this is. I should be in bed.

John glanced, again, towards the corner, brow furrowed. He turned back to Molly. "He knows we can see him, doesn't he?"

"Oh, leave him alone," Molly said, packing apple slices into lunchboxes. "He thinks he's being sneaky. It would be rude to ruin it for him."

She snapped the last lunchbox closed and gestured at John, who obediently held out his hands for Molly to stack up the containers so he could take them to the fridge. Rosie had entered a phase where she refused to eat anything that Auntie Molly hadn't carved into anatomical shapes, so Molly had taken to making meals in bulk on the weekends.

Rosie had also come home with sixteen separate notes from her daycare complaining that she insisted on detailing each organ and its function to her classmates, but trying to curb that was not a battle John was prepared to wage with his four-year-old – either the actual one or the one masquerading as an adult who'd taught her all those things and was currently stuffed into a gym bag in the corner of Molly's sitting room.

Sherlock's camouflage technique might have been better served if said gym bag was big enough for him to fold his long limbs into. As it was, a foot, a hand, and a good portion of a curly mop of hair was poking out in various places.

John stacked the lunchboxes into the fridge, closed it, and leaned against the counter. Molly's tongue poked out of the side of her mouth as she cut ham into little kidneys, complete with renal arteries coming out the side.

"Why is he…?"

"Who knows?" Molly said, shrugging. "It's Sherlock." She paused, scalpel hovering thoughtfully in mid-air. "You could text him. Ask him where he is."

John looked over the breakfast bar, then at Molly, then back at the bag, gesturing towards it, "He's right-!"

"John!" Molly cut him off sharply, one eyebrow lifted in disapproval. "Let him have this." She waggled her scalpel at him.

With a hefty sigh, John fished his phone out of his back pocket and typed out a quick text. A few seconds later, his phone buzzed.

_Molly Hooper is a_ _god damned_ _maniac_ , was Sherlock's nonsensical response.

John lifted his eyes from his phone to the happily humming pathologist. She'd finished making kidneys and was now carving cauliflower florets into mini brains. His phone buzzed again.

_HELP ME._

"Oh," John said as the lightbulb went off. "What did he do?"

Without pausing her humming, Molly jabbed her scalpel directly upwards. Tilting his head back, John hissed in a breath at the large, reddish stain that most certainly hadn't been there last weekend.

"Is that blood?"

"Porcine, apparently."

John winced in sympathy. Sherlock preferred human body parts for his experiments, but pigs were generally easier to come by. Once, he'd come home to find the bathtub full of pig's blood. Sherlock never had given him a convincing explanation as to why.

_IT WAS AN ACCIDENT_.

"Huh," John huffed quietly as he looked at his phone. Sherlock loathed the convention of typing in all caps, so either he'd inadvertently turned on the caps lock or he was really desperate to be heard. "What did you gag him with?"

"Gym socks, of course," Molly said, in that exact same tone of voice Sherlock was wont to use when he was stating the (not really) obvious. She finished the cauliflower and put it aside, opening a bag of carrots. "Are carrot fingers too grotesque, do you think?"

John pocketed his phone, leaning his elbow on the counter and grinning. "Nah. Rosie'll love them."


End file.
